


a guide to the art of reassimilation (as told by Stanford Pines)

by mackdizzy



Series: Ford's character studies [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Trauma, bill fucked him over, everyone loves eachother yay, ford pines learns how to be a human being, im just compensating for triggers!, stan and dipper and mabel are too good for this world, the tags make it sound WAY WORSE than it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22618936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackdizzy/pseuds/mackdizzy
Summary: --But love, Ford is starting to realize, is different. Love does not stay on the straight and narrow. Love does not rise and fall and rise again in perfect lines or curves, or anything that can be tracked by a formula or a graph. Love is erratic, spontaneous, random. Love, in fact, commits—quite frequently—the singular bane of any biological principle. Love doubles back in on itself.--[FORDUARY WEEK 1: CREATION/DESTRUCTION]
Relationships: Bill Cipher/Ford Pines, Bill Cipher/Ford Pines (Past) (Implied) (SORT OF???), Dipper Pines & Ford Pines, Dipper Pines & Ford Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Mabel Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines, there is no incest please
Series: Ford's character studies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754914
Comments: 8
Kudos: 103
Collections: Forduary





	a guide to the art of reassimilation (as told by Stanford Pines)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Forduary, all! Sorry I'm so late with week one! A reminder that you will be getting FIVE pieces this month, hooray hooray!
> 
> Week 1's theme was Creation/Destruction, and due to the little theme mishap I had (IE; making my own fanmade themes and starting them before realizing there were actual ones), I decided to be METAPHORICAL AS HELL WITH IT, but I actually....really really dig the approach I took, and I hope you guys do too/understand how the theme works in. More like "Destruction/Recreation", really, but we're working with it.
> 
> [CW'S: ford is just really traumatized, folks, so CW's for panic attacks, there's at least one as far as your categorizing goes. Past-mental-abuse is sort of what this whole thing is About, so tread lightly there too.]
> 
> [SHIPS: ok, going to be honest, this one gets a LIIIIIIIIIITTLE billfordy. (Past, not current, and One-sided, as per canon terms). It's not explicitly post-ship, but there's a lot of complex feelings about the whole thing going through Ford's head, so I'm tagging in warning anyway.]
> 
> This is a concept I LOVE exploring and talking about at length, and I'm glad I got to jazz up an actual piece for it! I hope you all enjoy!

Stanford Pines is starting to realize that love does not have a trajectory.

Plenty of things in the study of physics have trajectories. If you throw something in the air, it has a trajectory. A large object of mass in spatial orbit--like in the multiverse--has a set trajectory. Orbits are trajectories. So are ellipses and hyperbolas. Trajectories have formulas. They can be plotted and planned and mathematically decoded. If you know where something in motion starts, you can know where it ends up, how fast it takes to get there, what direction it will go, and whether it will go up, or down, or left, or right, drag or rise and pull, at any point in time, if you’re smart enough. That was how the world worked.

But  _ love,  _ Ford is starting to realize, is different. Love does not stay on the straight and narrow. Love does not rise and fall and rise again in perfect lines or curves, or anything that can be tracked by a formula or a graph. Love is erratic, spontaneous, random. Love, in fact, commits—quite frequently—the singular bane of any biological principle. Love doubles back in on itself.

This would be an annoyance to Ford from any standpoint. A scientific one, sure, because it is  _ annoying  _ to learn you can’t track your feelings in a thesis. But also quite a personal one. When love did that annoying thing—that  _ doubling back— _ it doubled back unwillingly and instinctively to places he didn’t want it to go. People he didn’t want to be reminded of. Lies he didn’t want to remember he was told.

-

The first time Ford realizes this, that love doesn’t have a trajectory, it is with Dipper. They’re sitting on the eaves, that one spot where you can crawl out of the window of the loft and pull your knees under you, and you have a perfect view of the stars. Dipper had his head on his shoulder—a quiet gesture, one that he felt softly strange about. He’d been babbling on about the constellations for a while now, in a way he was perfectly aware he was  _ babbling  _ but Dipper seemed eager to babble back, and….he felt strange about that, too. It twisted in his gut for a reason he couldn’t place. And Ford wasn’t one to notice things like this, but for once he notices that Dipper looks a bit  _ sad,  _ and he pauses to address it. “Dipper, are you alright?”

“Hm? Oh. Yeah, I guess. Last time I was here, I…it wasn’t so great.” 

Dipper averts his eyes, and Ford feels something stir in him. Normally, Dipper is one to talk about all of his adventures, the good, the bad, and the messy. The only thing Dipper _doesn’t_ usually want to talk much about, Ford was finding, is Weirdmageddon, which--none of them do, really, at length, so it’s not a huge deal. This quietness, however, indicates something is really bothering Dipper, so he presses on, just a little more. If Dipper doesn’t want to talk, he’ll back off, he’s been there, but Stan’s been pushy enough and it’s been good on him, so he figures it’s worth a shot. “Wasn’t so great how?”

“I...um. Well, I suppose I never  _ did  _ tell you.” Dipper mutters. He looks at one hand--his right--then his left, then hugs them both to his chest, in a way that seems almost self-conscious, almost panicky.

“You don’t….have to talk about it, Dipper.”

“No, nononono, better out than in, right?” He laughs, bitterly. It’s a laugh Ford recognizes; it’s a laugh Ford uses. “Um. I was trying to...find out who you were, and I was trying to get into your laptop--sorry, McGucket’s laptop, and...I didn’t have a lot of tries left, and I hadn’t slept in  _ days,  _ and then--it just happened, and then I---I, um---” Dipper drags a sleeve across his eyes, and only then does Ford realize he’s about to cry. His lips purse in concern and he holds an arm out, but Dipper won’t let it stop him, and he simply blurts out: “And--I made a deal.”

Ford stops short. He feels something chill him to the bone. A million variables dart through his head, and they’re all horrifying, and he wants to run and hide; no, better than that, he wants to take  _ Dipper  _ and run and hide with  _ him,  _ because nothing he’s imagining can be true, nothing he’s picturing could have happened, because Dipper is...Dipper is a child. Barely thirteen years old, and---no. He won’t resolve to it, not until he has all the facts. But he can’t help the way his voice is stifled, and choked, and sounding on the verge of panic  _ himself  _ when he, in return, blurts out: “You don’t mean--with--”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Dipper nods furiously, and then he really  _ does  _ start crying, messily. Ford never knows how to make someone feel better when they’re crying, but that doesn’t mean it stirs him any less, that his want to help is any less subdued. “I feel so...God, no, I’m  _ so stupid,”  _ And Ford wants to interject that he’s not stupid, he’s a child (He wonders if that excuse is implying that he himself is stupid. He knows he deserves it.), but he doesn’t, he just lets Dipper finish talking. “He---well, actually, okay.” He speaks through sniffles, holding his knees up to his chest and pushing through. “Mabel was holding this, putting on this, puppet show? For this guy she wanted to impress, and--Bill, he said he wanted a puppet, and I thought he meant--y’know, one of Mabel’s, the sock puppets, but--”

And now Ford can’t let Dipper finish, because he feels like he’s going to be sick, and he holds up a hand as his gut churns. He could be sick, he really could, and all the variables slot themselves back into place. He shouldn’t ask, Dipper is a child, but that’s  _ why  _ he needs to know, and once again his curiosity overtakes his common sense and he exclaims, sounding more terrified than he should; “What did He do to you?”

Dipper chokes. Half-chokes, half-sobs. “Um---look, okay? Just look.” Shaking, he holds out an arm. If Ford looks closely enough, he can see puncture scars dotting the surface like constellations. There’s bruises, too, along his arms, that he thought were from Weirdmageddon, but now he might be reconsidering. “And--this was before you got here, all of it, but I had to go to the hospital, he--threw me down the stairs, bruised my tailbone. He just got up and kept going, I didn’t  _ feel  _ it until I was back in my body, and then--” Dipper can barely speak anymore, and he wraps his bruised, scarred arms tight around himself, and Ford feels something in him break, but he doesn’t know what to  _ do,  _ just scooches closer and puts one hand on his grand-nephew’s shoulder. “Tell me what to do, Dipper.”

“Tell me--tell me about the constellations again?”

“Alright.” He says, laughing lightly. “You know all about the Big Dipper, I’m sure. But the tail of the big Dipper, that’s also the tail of Ursa Major. The Romans believed that Jupiter swung her into the sky to protect her from Juno--she was an illegitimate lover of his, see, before Juno turned her into a bear, and…” His eyebrows furrow, and his right hand finds his left sleeve, tugging on it gently. “Oh, nevermind. It’s quite silly, really, no scientific background, just...just a bunch of twinkling lights in the sky. It’s nothing, really, compared to the multiverse.”

Dipper doesn’t look convinced. He’d never been a good bluffer “You don’t sound super sure of yourself, Great-uncle Ford.”

“Yes, well...It’s silly. Impractical.”

“Yeah, but...you like talking about it, right?”

“Maybe. Once upon a time, maybe, but...what’s the use of liking impractical things?”

“No offense, Great-Uncle Ford, but that’s ridiculous.” Dipper chuckled, nudging into him sideways. “You can like whatever you want! We like DNDNMD, right? You can like constellations and stuff--who told you you couldn’t?”

There’s a pause, that hangs heavy and stagnant in the air like molasses. He tugs a bit harder at his sleeve, tick-tick-ticking every second that goes by in his head. Every second is another attempt to say it, or to say anything, but the words die on his tongue. 4, 5, 6, like his fingers--always made fun of his fingers, too, his fingers and his interests, silly constellations and freaky hands and impractical, impractical unless it was His way, and--

“Oh.”

Dipper obviously knows what he’s thinking about, because that one word breaks the silence--breaks it, but ends up making it thicker in retrospect. “Well--it’s over now, and-- _ I _ don’t think it’s silly  _ or  _ impractical. You enjoy it, y’know? You shouldn’t be hanging out with people who knock you down for that sort of thing.

“I just…” He tries to come up with excuses, shaking his head slowly. “I thought that was how it worked, was all.”

“What?”

There’s a certain dryness in his throat that isn’t going away, now, no matter how much he tries to ward it off. There is also, he realizes, something wet in the corners of his eyes, something that definitely doesn’t belong there. When he speaks, it’s even more choked up than Dipper’s confession had been—worse. It’s a worse one. “Love.”

“No, I—“ there’s a momentary pause. Dipper sounds….reconsiderate, when he continues. “I get...that part. I meant,  _ why  _ would you think that’s how love works? People shooting you down all the time?”

That was a good question. That was a question, in fact, that he’d never even considered asking himself. The answer, Ford would eventually come to realize, is because he had been desperate. Entirely desperate to be loved. So much so that he took it--took it  _ all _ \--from the first person who offered His hand, regardless of--not even considering--the consequences. “I don’t know.” He muttered. It was the best he had.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be like that anymore, Great-Uncle Ford.”

It was the best  _ Dipper  _ had. It was a start.

-

That was a start. That was the first time. The second time is over Mabel’s shoulder, scanning her school itinerary--he’d done Dipper’s early that afternoon, lots of math classes, a few APs, and a double photography electives. Ambitious for a freshman, but Dipper was nothing if not ambitious. Now it’s Mabel’s turn, and though she keeps getting sidetracked by on screen popups, they're having a good amount of fun. Core classes finished, and now it’s time to do electives, and Mabel is practically  _ bouncing  _ in her seat, obviously more than enthused to tell him some pressing news.

“Okay, okayokayokay, Grunkle Ford, I wanna take...acting classes!” 

That was very Mabel-like. Cute. He raised an eyebrow, chuckling slightly. “That’s great, Mabel. I think you’ll do gr--”

She wasn’t done. “Our school is doing Cabaret this year--year, our  _ highschool,  _ but that’s Oakland, I guess! Anyway, even though I’m a freshman, I think I’d make a  _ fantas-- _ ”

The notion of how _ ridiculous  _ it would be to see a Mabel-interpreted Sally Bowles is incredibly brief. It’s overtaken by that churning feeling in his gut, and he  _ remembers  _ talking about constellations on the roof last night with Dipper, because it’s like he’s there again. He’s there, but he’s also in his lab on another late night, 30 years ago, where the record player behind him dins Liza Minnelli’s voice into the air. It was Fiddleford’s record player, and Fiddleford was always wondering about his new penchance for those kinds of showtun—

“Grunkle Ford?”

The way Mabel says it sort of sounds like she’s said it before, and he realizes with a start that that actually may be the case. “Oh—yes, Mabel?”

“You—are you okay?”

He shuts his eyes tight and nods, once, but Mabel is even  _ more  _ intuitive than her twin, and she shakes her head in dismay. “No you’re not, Grunkle Ford. What’s up?”

“It’s—nothing, Mabel.” Dismiss, dismiss, dismiss. This one was just too hard to explain. There was no way he could get out of this one, there is no  _ way  _ he could ever find a way to explain thi--

“Is this about Bill?”

Mabel takes after Stanley in so, so many ways. The most obvious of these, of course, is her intuition. She’s sharp as a rock. He feels a little silly, in fact, trying to have deflected this, but there’s nothing much he can do about it now, and there’s still a part of him insisting that that one wasn’t  _ that  _ obvious, Mabel was just  _ good.  _ It’s probably true. “How...do you figure that?”

“Well, for one thing, that’s the only time you get so…. _ jumpy.  _ And, for another.” She pauses, and waves her hand around in the air like she’s trying to figure out what to say, or maybe like she’s reconsidering saying it in the first place, but she plows through. “When we were doing our--you heard about the sock puppet musical?” He nods, once, trying to push the rooftop from his mind. “When we were doing the sock puppet musical, and he was--in Dipper’s body, he wouldn’t stop  _ singing showtunes!  _ And he was like, it’s a musical, right? And I was like, okay, but that’s so weird, because Dipper’s never even heard of half of these! Like, Hamilton,  _ maybe,  _ but I mean,  _ Chicago?  _ _ Dipper?” _

“Oh, He was  _ wild  _ about that one.” He laughs, and the memories are sharp, for a moment. Vivid. Warm. Then, dissipated, graciously, and his hands find his sleeves again. “No matter, though, it’s…over, now. He folds his hands in his lap. It  _ is  _ over. Everything that was once-good was good no longer, that was just the way things  _ worked. _

“Well--Well I can pick a different elective if you want, Grunkle Ford, I would rather be a part of something you can come enjoy, y’know?”

And that churns his gut in a different, sadder sort of way. There were things that were over, for him, things that he  _ wanted  _ to be over, but it was true even now that he sometimes forgot the way his actions rubbed off on other people. The way that their lives were all tangled up, now. His in Bill’s, pulling the strings like a spider, but also wrapped gently around his family’s. The little things meant something more, now. They  _ had  _ to. “No, no.” He excuses by that vein, shaking his head. “I’m sure I’ll get over it in time, Mabel.”

“...I dunno, Grunkle Ford.” She tilts her head. “I dunno if you should just ‘get over it.’ That’s not the point, is it?”

“...Well then, what is the point? I want to be able to come to your show, Mabel.”

“Yeah, well, just ‘getting over’ your feelings isn’t gonna do you much good. You should...yknow. Take the bad memories associated with the bad things and make them into good ones! Is there a nerdy word for that?” She stuck out her tongue and giggled. “Probably.”

“Like--like reassimilation?” 

“Yeah, sure, if that’s what you wanna call it! You’ve got people who love you for  _ real  _ now, Grunkle Ford. None of that fake stuff. Besides, I’d be a better Sally Bowles than Bill Cipher any ol’ day. Even as a freshman.”

-

And then, of course, Stan. Stan at his beginning and Stan at his end, and Stan loosely everywhere in the middle, too, in the important parts. Stanley, long after the bus had taken Dipper and Mabel (and Waddles) back to Piedmont with everything they could give them. Stanley, after the house he’d lived in for seven years and then one last summer was in the dust behind them. Stanley, now, standing in front of a ship that looked familiar, but new and exciting, all at the same time. Stanley, with dust and wear and an edge in the tone of his voice as he raised an eyebrow, smiling at him. “Ready, Sixer?” 

Stanley in other ways, too. Stanley’s hand, gentle, on his shoulder. Stanley’s gaze, kind, trying to lock into his eyes as they glaze over and fall somewhere on the horizon. The back of Stanley’s palm on his forehead, which is suddenly beaded with sweat. He is shaking. He has just noticed that he is  _ trembling,  _ that there are wet spots on his cheeks and his breath is coming in gasps; he has just noticed this, and he tries to shut his eyes to keep it out, but every time he closes his eyes he is  _ there,  _ with  _ Him,  _ and he can hear Him laughing at him. Feel it. Feel it and it hurts. The way he’s being laughed at. Like an old friend.

He is in Stanley’s arms before he even realizes it, head against his shoulder, shaking apart because there’s nothing else to do. Half of the time, he is vibrantly aware that there are eyes on him as he keens into Stan’s shoulder. The other half of the time, he’s still in the Fearamid, a week and five days ago, and when he’s  _ there  _ he balls his fists into the back of Stan’s shirt and trembles harder. This is not the first time he has done this, not the first time he’s broken, but this is the first time it has been like  _ this.  _ Fear (longing). Panic (hurt). Fright (heartbreak). 

Stanley cares more than should be humanly possible, cares enough to stand out here in the open sunlight and fresh Coos Bay air as long as it takes to drag him out of the cataclysm of his own mind and into reality. “Still with me, Poindexter?” He mumbles, and then Ford feels him tense up, and it feels him with dread. “Don’t worry, I didn’t give Him that one.” He laughs, bitterly, the kind of laugh when something isn’t funny but you’re laughing because you don’t know what else to do. 

“Ford--”

“God.” He pulls back and wipes the tears from his eyes, grabbing onto his sleeves. “Stanley, I--I gave it all away. Everything I had I gave to him! Everything you had--everything  _ we _ had. Stanley, not a single thing is my own anymore!” He takes a step back and can’t help himself from sobbing again, and for maybe the first time he doesn’t  _ care  _ about the people staring, he needs this out. He needs to get this out. “I want to have a  _ life _ with you, but...I  _ can’t,  _ can’t you see? I gave everything away.”

“Ford, Ford.” Stan takes a step closer and puts a hand on his arm, and only then does he realize he’s still trembling like he’s about to fall apart. “Ford, I..I know you think you gave it away--”

“I  _ did  _ give it away, Stanle--”

“Ok, fine. Maybe. Maybe you---shared some of yourself with someone ya’ shouldn’t have. But. But.” Stan folds his hands together like their Ma always did before she imparted some great wisdom, and he raises an eyebrow expectantly. “But isn’t that what we’re  _ supposed  _ to do? Givin’ ourselves away, isn’t that the  _ point?  _ Just because you...let someone else in to things you enjoy, or ‘gave away’ that stupid nickname I always used--”

“Stanley, it wasn’t stupid--”

“Doesn’t mean  _ I _ gotta stop usin’ it! That’s  _ my  _ nickname, damnnit, I’ll use it as much as I want. If you love somethin’, it’s meant to be shared. So you shared it with the wrong person. Doesn’t mean you can’t share it with anyone else, afterwards.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Nope.” Stan shakes his head, and he’s so resolute on this fact that Ford finds himself believing in it, truly, indefinitely. “Nope! The point is to share as much as possible, really.”

“That sounds fake. He averts his eyes, feeling guilt pool in him again. He shoves twelve fingers into the pocket of his coat. “I just---it keeps---doubling back in on itself. Reminding me of Him. Every little thing. It feels like I don’t have anything anymore. Nothing is my own, I keep...going back.”

  
  


“But it’s  _ not  _ fake, Ford.” “I know, that--” His face scrunches up, like he doesn’t want to say it. “I know that Bill gave you some backwards, twisted ideas on what it meant to love someone, but they were wrong, Ford.” Stan steps closer and nudges his shoulder into him, and he laughs more genuinely. “They were wrong, and if you stick with  _ us  _ for long enough, we’ll teach you that. And there’s nothin’ wrong with that, Sixer.” And this time, the nickname makes him smile, and then he realizes maybe some of what Stan has said is working already.

“Alright, genius. Think you can get a navigation...thingy...going for the arctic while I get us checked out?”

“It’s called a trajectory.” He says with a slight smile, and Stan shoves him on the shoulder playfully before walking off. He nods, feeling confident.  _ That  _ he could set a trajectory for, at least. And the other stuff….they’d figure it out together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading, I'm looking forward to an awesome Forduary!! As usual, your comments keep me thriving, so if you enjoyed, I'd really appreciate one. Thanks a thousand! <3


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